Queen of the Clouds
by putneygrey
Summary: The webjournals as told by Junko Enoshima, and possibly some friends. Inspired by Joanne Harris' "Blueeyedboy".


_You are viewing the webjournal of __**secretbeauty**__ posting on: _**realityisnteverything **

**Posted at**: _01:44, January 11th_

**Status**: _public_

**Mood**: _sophisticated_

**Listening to**: _Library Tapes_: 'Broken Piano'

Sadness is such an artfully beautiful thing, she thinks. Despair, dejection, distress, despondency, desperation. It is also _her _emotion in so many ways, running through her circuitry all the very way through, screaming bright and crystalline despair all the way.  
>Despair colours everything interesting in this lifetime, she sees it. She gets bored very easily. Hope holds nothing for her, not the exhilarating pretences and experiences she longs for. Nothing <em>good<em> is ever interesting. A story about tragedy and loss will always be more interesting than one of a happily ever after. Nothing good or hopeful could ever hold her attention for what she needs to entertain her is much greater, much darker. Her mind often wanders to dark places, and it very much likes it there. The dark corners of life have been where she was living since she was born. And believe it or not, she finds such great comfort in that sadness that has been diligently following her around for as long as she could remember. Because of course, it is always there, it had always been there for her to fall back on. Hope is so very sporadic. So is happiness in general. You can never rely on it to stick around for as long as you'd like it to. _Secretbeauty_ herself, never did. She knew she never needed to when there was such beautiful despair always there for her. There as a refuge to bury herself in whenever she needed it.  
>Today, she is only six years old. There is a peculiar innocence in her sad little smile. She doesn't yet completely understand the things she feels, she doesn't know the word. But she knows how to feel it and she knows how to make other people feel it. And she enjoys that immensely. Today she is at the beach, a quaint rarity as a girl who had hardly ever set foot outside her concrete jungle of a home. It is just herself, her mother, and her older twin sister— shall we call her <em>persona<em>? _Persona_ with her messy, short bob of obsidian hair and cat-like eyes with senses to match their keenness. She is a meek, reflective young girl. She always accepted second place to _secretbeauty_, never protesting, never complaining, never seeming to hope for anything more than to serve her, to give her what she wanted. _Persona_ and _secretbeauty_ had little similarities other than despair, other than the way they felt more than other people ever would. The dark places both their minds wandered to. That was their only real bond. However they were such a beautiful paradox, their differences such an interesting type of clash, one day to come together for something bigger than both of them. Under the milk blue evening sky with _secretbeauty_ and _persona_ at their mother's flanks, they walk in silence over the dark golden sand. The aggressive tide communicates for them. _Secretbeauty_ doesn't so much like the lapping waves or the water in general, it is too cold and too vast. It is the fear of so much of the unknown out there beneath the surface. Besides, water does not necessarily agree with her favorite choice of hairstyle. _Persona_ is the opposite, nothing much phases her. Her small, pale hand grabs her sister's, and pulls her off into the tide with a joyful giggle. _Secretbeauty _winces as the cold saltwater jumps at her feet in little beads before washing over them completely. She directs a childish growl to her twin, pulling her hand away roughly. Our hero does not hesitate to shove her little _persona_ face first into the chilly evening saltwater, wearing a satisfied simper as her twin yelped on impact with the water.  
>It starts out so very small.<br>An appeased smirk when she causes her sister fright or panic. A fulfilled feeling hearing her cries and short yelps whenever our hero grows bored and decides to inflict despondency. Nothing she has ever experienced has made her feel more satiated than the anguish of others. Because, she is spreading the feeling and emotion that makes _secretbeauty_ herself feel so wonderful. Hope gives our hero a headache. The shiny, yellowish coloured word with its plush sound, irritating her eardrums and bringing on tentative, vague pain. Rusted gold, rough-feeling pain. The cool, cobalt blue of despair lulls her mind back— she lets it roll off her tongue, _desssspair_; until _secretbeauty_ is once again comfortable in her familiar, sapphire blue state of mind.  
>Until, she again grows bored.<p>

**Post comment**:

**fenrarity**: Persona, hm?

**nagitowasalone**: (post deleted)

**secretbeauty**: Why, thank you...


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